


Just A Man

by urisarang



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s02e07 The Believer, Gen, How Many F-bombs Can I fit in this?, Mando approves, Mayfeld is working through some things, Migs Mayfeld POV, Migs Mayfeld Swears Like Bill Burr, Mostly Canon Compliant, No beta we die like Bothans, Outsider perspective watching someone go through some shit, Redemption, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2 Spoilers, This Is The Way, but since he's an asshole he doesn't really help, mostly rated for language, with violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28609158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urisarang/pseuds/urisarang
Summary: Migs Mayfeld, or prisoner 34667 as his droid wardens affectionately called him, had gotten used to the daily grind on the prison colony.  He had three square meals, worked from sun up to sun down and after kicking a lot of ass?  No one messed with him.  It was a peaceful life--not everyone was so lucky to have that.At least that's what he told himself to get through the day.But when some cop shows up and springs him without a word of explanation?  He follows.  She won't say what she needs him, of all people, for but it couldn't be worse than what he was doing right?Then an all too familiar suit of beskar steps out of her ship and he's already regretting his life choices--but little does he know how differently this adventure would turn out for him.For the both of them.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 16
Kudos: 112





	Just A Man

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this in a bout of frantic writing over three days. I blame my love for Bill Burr and take full responsibility for polluting this fandom with _all_ the f bombs.  
> Follows canon for the most part, anything that was different? I didn't care to fix after rewatching the episode. Besides, a little bit of canon divergence never hurt anyone :P
> 
> I had a blast writing this and I hope you will like it as well. ^_^

When he sees a Mandalorian walk off the ship Migs knows his luck is running thin. He’s only ever met the one--and that was one too many. The guy was one of, if not the most, impressive fighters he’s ever seen--which is no small praise considering he’s seen far more than his share of fighters. Both during his Imperial days and afterwards working for the highest bidder. Watching him take out all those droids on his own and running into what should have been certain death all without even a hint of hesitation--

Crazy son of a bitch.

Migs had been considering offering to team up for another gig--the double cross he was being paid extra for be damned. The Mando was just that good. But of course there was a catch.

Because there is always a fucking catch.

The Mando--from a proud race that is known throughout the galaxy for their skill in waging war and dealing death--had morals. A code, a _creed_ based on a whole god damn religion?! You’ve gotten to be fucking kidding me. The Mando just had to go and get butthurt about some nameless rebel officer getting shanked. Sure, Migs didn’t have the bloodlust many in his profession did, but he never shied away from a few broken eggs here and there along the way. 

Especially not on the other side. 

That the Mando cared enough to turn on them over the, admittedly stupid move, on the twi’lek’s part to take out the rebel officer? That he was willing to throw his reputation and chances for survival down the recycler over one guy he never even knew? 

Migs was glad he had held his tongue along with his offer when it came time for the double cross--he couldn’t have a guy with that strict a code watching his back other there. No matter how skilled he was. Because what would happen the next time? With the Mando’s reputation and price it made no sense that he was so willing to go back on a deal for a total stranger. 

Where would he draw the line? At what point would he decide that his _code_ was worth more than his word? More than the job--than his team? 

No, fuck all that. Migs was so past done working with zealots--on either side. Any side. He’s played that game before and the people like him? They lose. Every damn time and he’s done with losing. So he kept his mouth shut and went along with the double cross though it was a shame. Because what they were doing? Almost amounted to hunting an endangered species with how rare Mandos are. 

And then, of course, the guy proceeds to kick their asses. Badly.

Fucking figures. Always picking the losing team isn’t he? He was mad--of course he was fucking mad! He was going to go away for a long, long time for this, but a part of him? A small, bitter piece of the man he used to be admired the Mando. Admired that he was able to stick to his code and manage to come out on top despite the handicap. 

But as that familiar shiny suit steps out from behind the other Mandalorian he remembers just how much he hates the sanctimonious prick when he hears that modulated voice. He gets even more mad when he’s forced to listen to the bullshit, crazy mission they sprung him for--A mission he gets no say in accepting or not.

So Migs does what he does best--he runs his mouth. He pokes and prods the Mando like he’s some beast--wanting to see the man’s limits. Wanting to see him snap. The other Mandalorian and the fucking _cop_ freely voice their distaste for him and the things he says, but the Mando keeps quiet.

Sure, Migs knows that the guy needs him, but if things were different? He knows everyone else on the ship would happily shove him out an airlock and be done with him. No remorse.

But not the Mando. He can’t see the man’s face, can’t look him in the eyes but Migs knows-- He can feel it in the air when the Mando looks at him--

He’s no killer.

Sure, he kills, has to in their line of work. But he’s not a _killer_. There’s a big difference. He doesn’t enjoy it--neither does Migs but it doesn’t bother him when he has to--not like how he knows it bothers the Mando. 

Just how the hell did he manage to get this far with a reverence for life intact? As a _bounty hunter_ of all things?!

It weighs on Migs, bothers him like a rock in his boot during a long march. What makes him so damn special that he gets to keep that spark of, he hates to even think of the word, _goodness_? Why does he get to play at the good guy--a literal knight in shiny fucking beskar while the rest of the galaxy slogs through the mud?

So yeah, he’s mean to the guy. So sue him. Everyone has a point, a line, or a weakness. Something that pushes them over the edge to abandon their morals, their code. Their Mandalorian creed. One small concession at a time until the saint is just another sinner trying to survive. 

“What is the line? Huh? Is it that you can’t take off the helmet or that I can’t see your face?” Migs taunts him, silence his only answer. It’s weird to be sat next to the Mando dressed up as any other trooper--take the Mando out of the armor and what is he? 

The air in the transport is heavy, the Mando is angry, very angry--but not nearly angry enough for Migs to see the man underneath the layers. Not yet.

“Where do you draw the line? Your code? Your precious _creed_ that means so much to you? When does it become a handicap, something that gets in the way of something more important?” Plates creak as the Mando squeezes his hands into fists at his side. “Codes, morals, rules--they’re nice. They’re great but something will come along. Something will happen--because it always fucking does and you’ll have to make a choice. Between some fucking made up rules and something--or someone important.

“Then what will you do? You’ll give in, that’s what. Just a small thing but that will only be the beginning.” Migs gestures towards the trooper helmet the Mando is wearing, “That right there? That _bending_ of the rules? It’s just the beginning and I know deep down you know it too. So how about you let off on your high and mighty attitude because you know what?”

Migs turns to look at the helmet where he knows the man’s eyes are. Can feel them boring into him in a way that would be a lot more intimidating if Migs didn’t know the man needed him.

“We’re no different. You’re one of us now. It’s only a matter of time before you lose your code. No, before you _throw_ it away.” His eyes flick down in memory before he glances away heart heavy. “As far as I’m concerned, if you can make it through the day and still sleep at night? You’re doing better than most. The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.” 

He had a moral code once, lines that he wouldn’t cross. Once upon a time in what feels like another life Migs cared. He cared deeply for the people around him, in their cause--but then the real world slapped him in the face with a wake up call. He had to choose between his survival and his cause but when it’s put like that?

lt was a simple choice.

A blip on the sensors forestalls any more of Migs prodding and poking of the Mando--they’ve got company. A craft is on their tail while they are severely handicapped by shitty Imperial weapons and I don’t know, the fucking mother load of bombs waiting to happen, _rhydonium_ , as cargo. It is a nightmare scenario and yet Migs gets the distinct impression that the Mando is actually _relieved_ for the distraction. That he would prefer to face terrible odds with death being a very real possibility over listening to what Migs has to say.

A satisfied smirk grows on his face. The Mando might be able to kick his ass 7 ways to sunday--but apparently he doesn’t know how to handle just a taste of Migs’s ridicule. At least he has that on the prick.

The Mando climbs out on top of the speeding transport and makes short work of the pirates with his blaster, and then his fists when the gun jams--like shitty Imperial blasters do. As much money and power the Imperials have you’d think they would have invested in better gear and weapons but no--troopers are nothing more than fodder to them after all.

One speeder chasing them becomes two, and then three. The Mando fights harder than he had on the prison ship but he’s constantly on the verge of being overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Attention divided between watching the road, the temperature monitor and the cameras Migs tries his best to hold it all together. He can only do so much to help the Mando.

He can’t drive too fast or they explode. 

Can’t use evasive maneuvers or they’ll explode. 

Can’t get out and help the Mando as he fights off half a dozen pirates with just his wits and skills or you’ve guessed it, they’ll explode.

Migs is no stranger to relying on someone for his survival--he’s never liked it but he can deal. He’s been through plenty of high stakes engagements but nothing quite like this one.

When he was an Imperial he had a squad to rely on. In his less than savory dealings after the war he always had a crew he could count on to do their jobs even if he wouldn’t trust them as far as he could throw them once the gig was over. 

He hasn’t had a partner in all his time after getting out. One person he could count on--it was too risky, and too painful. Bad memories of what happened the last time he had brothers in arms during his time as a trooper.

It is an entirely different feeling to know his life rests in the Mando’s hands. It goes both ways, but he’s seen how the Mando operates. Has an inkling for how his mind works. He expects Migs to carry his weight, to keep them both alive--even when they were on that prison barge together the Mando had unwavering, if supremely misplaced, faith. Faith that Migs would watch his back. 

Their fates are entwined in this moment. If one should fail, they both will--and they get close. They get so fucking close it makes his asshole pucker right up. The Mando is being held down by two of the pirates while a third places a charge and Migs can’t do a damn thing but watch. 

This is it. This is how he dies, on some shithole planet he never wanted to return to with a man whose face he’s never even seen for company. That’s just great. Considering the last time he was involved with Imperials an entire city burned to the ground around him--he shouldn’t be surprised at the repeat performance. 

At least it will be over quickly when the rhydonium goes. Better than how his squad had gone out.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel and his eyes flick from the road, the temperature gauge blaring red warnings, and the cameras. Not sure which one is going to be what does him in. His eyes flick back up to the camera in time to see the Mando on his feet, charge in hand the two men who were holding him down no where to be seen. 

A cheer of adrenaline fueled laughter bursts out of his chest as he watches the Mando give them a taste of their own medicine. He pulls his arm back hurling the charge at the remaining speeders on their tail and with a mighty explosion they both come crashing into the ground.

He did it--the crazy bastard actually did it! As much as the Mando’s insistence on clinging to his beliefs bothers Migs, there is no denying his ability. Of all the Galaxy Migs can think of no other man he would want at his back. He lets off the gas watching the warnings go back down to yellow, they’re so close now. Almost home free.

The radar pings another alarm cutting short his celebration and he sees--

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Four more speeders fly through the smoke cloud left from the explosion. Even with the shitty cameras Migs can make out the ominous red blinking of activated charges. A lot of them. 

A suicide run. 

He sees the Mando’s shoulders slump. He has got to be beat to hell after fighting hand to hand against so many and barely, just _barely_ making it out on top. 

There is no way they are making it out of this, but Migs will admit that if he’s gotta go there are worse ways. This way will be quick, no agony of bleeding out from a blaster shot in some god forsaken jungle, or stabbed in the back by someone he thought he could trust. Besides, he should have died in Burnin Konn years ago.

Radar pings in warning again but the two dots are green. Migs scarcely dares to allow himself hope.

A minute to midnight the cavalry swoops in. The whine of the tie fighter engines, the high pitched sounds of their blasters--music to his ears. After a lifetime away from the Empire, despising it and what it cost him--but that sound? Of air support? Never a more beautiful sound to a ground pounder like him.

Migs cheers and hoops with unadulterated joy as the tie fighters do a fly by blasting the pirates on their tail transforming them into smoldering hunks of wreckage. 

“Bet you never thought you’d see the day you were happy to see the Imperials did ya Mando?” He calls out behind him as the Mando climbs back down into the cockpit. He never thought he would see the day again either and yet here they are. 

The Mando all but collapses into the chair beside Migs, he glances over at the other man. His eyes do a quick once over looking for obvious signs of injury. A pauldron is missing, half a dozen blast marks from grazes, but the suit seems mostly intact. The Mando is favoring his left side, his right arm held a little stiffly against his body but he forces his arm back down when he catches Migs’s gaze.

“It’s fine.” 

“Yeah I bet. Just fine after fighting off half a dozen pirates by yourself.” 

“I’ve had worse.” Migs huffs out a bit of laughter at that.

“Now that I do believe. Is it really true you got eaten by a krayt dragon just so you could blow it up from inside?” Uncomfortable silence. “You fucking did didn’t you? Unbelievable. This fucking guy right here.” Migs reaches out knocking his fist into Mando's shoulder, seized by a feeling of camaraderie after surviving the pirates together.

The Mando shifts in his chair uncomfortably, but doesn’t deny it. What a trip. 

The euphoric mood doesn’t last though, not when they pull into the base proper. 

“Can't believe I’m breaking into a god forsaken Imperial base with a guy straight out of a fairy tale book. I’m getting too old for this shit. Can’t just do a simple robbery or prison break, always got to make it complicated.” Migs side eyes the Mando, the line of tension in the suit nearly painful to look at. 

Fuck it, he can show the man a little mercy after he saved their asses like that.

“Look, it’s going to be a milk run from here on out alright? All we gotta do is get into the officer’s mess, spend a couple of minutes getting personal with their computer then we’re good to go.” The tension barely lessens even a fraction.

Well, can’t say he didn’t try to not be the asshole for once.

They get in park, get a well earned cheer in their honor before slipping out the second the crowd parts to let them catch their breaths after the ordeal they went through. 

It’s weird being on the receiving end of that again. It feels good, really fucking good if he’s being honest. Real stroke to the ego. Almost enough to make him forget why he left in the first place. . .

And then he sees _him_. Vallin Hess, butcher of Burnin Konn. The ranking officer who made the call and ordered a city bombed. A city full of their own troops--full of everyone Migs had ever known.

Panic claws at his throat, but not from fear. He had sworn a vow that day-- A vow to kill that man if he ever had the chance. The blaster is a heavy weight on his hip.

The ever present embers of rage that have sustained him for most of his life flare up. The urge to wipe that perpetually smug and egotistical smile off that face is almost overpowering. But above all else he wants to see recognition and fear in those eyes, and then he wants to see the light fade out of those beady little eyes of his. 

He’s never wanted a man dead more in his life--and he kills people for a living.

“I can’t go in there.” He forces out, he can feel the Mando’s gaze on him but he can’t look away from Hess. 

“Why not?” His tone sounds annoyed, but he doesn’t understand--how could he?

“That man? That’s Valin Hess.” Migs pulls the Mando back from the doorway, stepping out of line of sight though it makes his skin crawl to have that man be nearby and not have a fix on him. He turns his attention on the Mando, reaching out and pulling his helmet closer by the back of his neck--this can’t be overheard. The Mando is tense under his hand but he does not resist.

“That man--he knows me, he’ll recognize me. I can’t go in there. This is game over, time to give up and go home.” It is more than that, he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth and says the words he won’t be able to stop. That the rage will take control and at the heart of an Imperial base with almost no back up? That is the dead last place he should be losing his cool.

“No.” The word is spoken strongly as to brooker no argument. “I can't give up. If we don't get those coordinates, I'll lose the kid forever. Give me the data stick.” Brave, but foolish.

“You can’t--”

“Yes, I can.” He’s not getting it, it isn’t a question of his abilities--it’s more than that. Fine, he’ll just have to spell it out for him.

“The terminal requires a face scan.” The Mandalorian goes eerily still, that got his attention. “It won’t give you access to the tracking network without it. So that’s it. It’s over.” Migs turns to leave but the Mando stops with an outstretched hand after a moment of heavy silence.

“Give me the stick.” How stubborn can this guy be? Heroes types expecting they can’t lose--well tough shit. Life isn’t fair and sometimes you get the short end of the stick and there isn’t anything you can do about it.

“Did you not hear me?” Anger colors his words, but the Mando doesn’t back down. It’s stupid for him to try it anyway it will set off an alarm and they’ll be swarmed faster than--

Shit. 

His train of thought is derailed as he realizes what the Mando means to do. After all that taunting and poking he did today, of all days, this is when he breaks his code. Son of a Sith-- He’s not really thinking of--

He wouldn’t, would he?

Migs feels a stirring from within, an emotion he hasn’t felt for a long, long time. He doesn’t recognize it at first--it’s not pity, at least not quite. He feels bad for the guy, who wouldn’t? But it goes more than that. He actually feels for the other man.

He can’t see the other man’s face, but he has a damn good idea what is going on inside that helmet just the same. After living a lifetime following his code, willing to die for it on numerous occasions he’s going to break it. Today. Right now and not in a small way. His creed didn’t allow _any_ living being to see his face since he was a child--not even his own. . .

And now he’s going to just--uhg, he hates the implication of the word but no better one comes to mind-- _expose_ , himself to a room full of enemies? That the first people to see his face are not loved ones, people he trusts but instead Imperials and one asshole who backstabbed him while working a gig together?

Talk about scraping the bottom of the barrel and coming away with shit. Migs scrubs a hand over his face, the Mando just puts his hand out in expectation. 

It churns Migs’s stomach when he hands over the stick. It feels like he’s handing down a sentence. The way the Mando walks away, back stiff as if marching to his own execution.

Except it's worse isn’t it? 

Migs never got into any of that religion mumbo jumbo--nearest he ever got was signing up with the Imperials. Sure, he had lines he wouldn’t cross, things he believed in but nothing special. Afterlives, honor in death, reincarnation? All sounded like a fairy tale and he was always a realist so he put no stock into such things.

But the Mando was raised in what amounts to a religious cult in Migs’s opinion. Being raised like that, with people who didn’t just believe--they had _faith_ \--what choice did the kid have but to buy into it too? 

So he truly believes in his code and that he will no longer be able to claim the title of Mandalorian if he allows someone to see his face. 

And he’s doing it anyway.

That kid he’s got must really be something special. 

Migs watches with no small amount of anxiety as the Mando walks up to the terminal, his motions unnaturally stiff as he works the terminal. If the base was on any sort of alert he wouldn’t last any amount of scrutiny, but lucky for them no one is looking closely Migs thinks which of course ruins everything.

Red lights flash from the terminal as the Mando stands in front of it, did he really just try it with the helmet on? What did he think was going to happen? For fuck’s sake. His finger itches for his blaster as his eyes dart between the Mando and Hess who keeps looking over at the commotion over at the terminal. 

Fuck, fuck fuck! They weren’t supposed to have to shoot their way out but if the Mando doesn’t do something soon they’re gonna have to. Come on, come on! Migs calls out in his head in futile hope he’ll do something other than stand there like an idiot.

Gloved hands rise to either side of his helmet and lift revealing short dark curls. Holy shit, he did it. He actually fucking did it. The terminal makes a beep of acceptance as it scans the Mando's face and Migs lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was even holding. A relieved smile breaks out over his face, he was really worried for a minute there but the Mando came through in the end.

“Trooper.” A voice he hasn’t heard in years but will never forget calls out. It’s a shock to the system to hear that bastard speak again, like an ice bucket dropped over his head while patrolling Hoth during a raging blizzard. 

The Mando, his back to Migs visibly flinches. He never flinches. That crazy son of a bitch apparently fought a fucking dragon--a goddamn dragon and didn’t flinch. Worry pools in his stomach, the guy is off his game. Understandable considering he’s committing what amounts to religious suicide while standing in a room full of demons--but bad fucking timing buddy.

“Trooper” The voice that haunts his nightmares calls out again. Impatient, demanding. Migs watches from the doorway uncharacteristically frozen in place as he watches a nightmare unfold before his eyes. 

Fingers twitch at Mando’s side, an echo of Migs’s unease from a moment before but he seems to shake some of it off. His posture once again goes ridged from where he had been slumping self consciously ever since he had taken off his helmet. Even from where Migs stands anxiously at the doorway he can see Mando’s shoulders rise as he takes in a deep breath before letting it out and turning around to face Hess.

Migs doesn’t know what he was expecting--but it certainly wasn’t this. The Mando has always had a presence about him, larger than life. But the face behind the helmet isn’t anything other than utterly average. No disfiguring scars worn like badges of honor, no menacingly overly masculine features that one would expect from the kind of man who would stand toe to toe against a mudhorn with just a knife in hand.

He looks like anyone else. He could be anyone walking by on the street who brushes by you but you and forgotten again in the next moment. 

Dark curly hair, stubble and. . .a mustache? Okay that part is a little surprising he will admit. Who even has a mustache these days? Who is he wearing it for since no one is going to be looking other than himself? Although, Migs will admit he does manage to pull it off where it wouldn’t work for almost anyone else. 

He even has a bit of a baby face. Soft, almost fragile. Completely at odds with how he acts with the helmet on. 

He’s just some guy in fancy armor trying his best. Just like the rest of them. The realization hits Migs like a blaster bolt to the chest as he looks at the other man’s eyes and sees undisguised fear. 

This whole time he had been operating under the idea that the Mando was larger than life, special, different. That whatever Mandalorian mumbo jumbo he bought into made him purge his fear or some shit--he certainly acted like it. All the stories of Mandalorians spoke of their complete and utter disregard for danger. Their bravery in the face of certain death is legendary. Now, normally Migs wouldn’t buy into any bullshit like that, but kids were told tales of their exploits as bedtime stories--

And he was no exception. So while he had taunted and trash talked the Mando all damn day he still thought that the Mando was fundamentally different from himself. That the reason he was able to do the things he did, make the choices he did--was because he was different. 

But not better.

And yet here before him stands a man, a man just like him, ready to throw away his way of life to rescue some alien kid who apparently can’t even speak? Maybe he is better. A better man than Migs to do all that. To risk everything feeling the same fears just as strongly as he does but pushing through them without complaint again and again.

Hess approaches asking questions and Mando freezes like a womp rat caught in front of a speeder. His panic and fear broadcasted plainly on his face.

Of course it is, the guy has worn a freaking helmet his entire life! He never had to learn how to hide what he’s thinking or feeling--and it might just end up being the death of him. Hess asks about his rank and designation, the Mando hesitates for way too long for such a simple question. His answer should have been given without any thought.

He’s going to blow it. Migs can already see how this is going to play out and it isn’t pretty. The way Migs sees it is that he has two choices: he can either cut his losses, disappear into the ranks, and find an opportunity to sneak out later, or he can go in there pulling bullshit directly out of his ass to bail out the panicking Mando.

Before he’d seen the guy’s face, seen how human he was--it would have been an easy choice. Watch out for number one, it's the only way to survive out on the rim. But it just doesn’t sit right with him to abandon the guy to his fate. Not after how hard he fought for them on the transport, not after doing this--all of this just to save his kid.

Migs really fucking hates hero types. He thought he was well past anyone getting under his skin and yet here he is in the middle of an Imperial base marching up into the officer’s room. Ready to face down the _butcher_ who rained hellfire on everything Migs has ever loved and for what? All for a guy who had a hand in getting him locked up? 

He doesn’t even know the guy’s name.

Migs calls out answering for the Mando as he approaches. Dark eyes flick over to meet his own and hell--those eyes. Uncertainty and fear--a desperate gratefulness as they meet his own. As if he expected to be abandoned, which considering their history, is fair. His eyes beseech and thank Migs in the same look, so openly grateful and sincere.

It feels almost lewd to look the man in the eyes when he’s so open with his thoughts and feelings. 

Migs looks away facing the butcher up close and personal for the first time since that night. The night this self absorbed prick took everything that ever mattered away from him.

It is a testament to his restrain that he doesn’t say ‘fuck it’ to the mission, pull out his blaster, and end the bastard where he stands right then and there. Where his gaze falls on Migs feels dirty, unclean.

And this was the first person to see the Mando’s face? What a fucking crime. It’s a cosmic fucking joke, he could not have picked a worse person in the galaxy if he tried. Hell, even if they raised Vader back from the dead as a zombie he’d be a better person to see than Hess--at least Vader showed remorse at the end according to the propaganda anyway.

Hess questions why the Mando didn’t answer, to which, of course, the Mando doesn’t answer. This guy is going to be the death of him--

“Sorry about that, he’s a little hard of hearing. This is my commanding officer TK- 593 sir. I'm Imperial Combat Assault Transport Lieutenant TK-111. He saved my ass covering me from a grenade back on an op in Tanaab and his hearing has never been the same since. Going to have to speak up to get through to him.” Migs pulls the first half way plausible excuse he can come up with out of his ass, jostling Mando’s shoulder in a show of comradery. Shooting the Mando a look asking him to play along Migs hopes he made the right choice or else he’ll be in the eye of the shitstorm right alongside his ass.

Hess stares at them for a long moment, Migs isn’t sure he bought the story and the Mando has nothing to add to it. He isn’t sure if the silence adds credibility to the story or not, but after a moment Hess speaks up again. 

And by speaks up, Migs means he’s halfway shouting at Mando.

“What is your name, officer?” If his life weren’t on the line at this very moment Migs would be busting out laughing at the expression on the Mando’s face, but he’d rather not meet the firing squad today so he keeps his mouth firmly shut. 

Unfortunately, Mando has the same idea. Migs shoots him another look from the side of his eye. God, he’s never seen a grown man look so uncomfortable in his life. Looks like it’s Migs turn to carry the weight of the team since the Mando seems to have lost all confidence along with his helmet. 

He was always a man of few words, but this is an entirely different level. Before his silences carried the weight of a man who carefully measured his words, saying no more than he had to. It wasn’t a bad strategy to get someone nervous and prone to making mistakes or saying more than they mean to just to fill the silence. He treated his words as he did his movements using no more than he needed to get the job done. 

The silence stretches, close to snapping so Migs steps in again.

“We just call him Brown Eyes sir.” Alright okay, so he couldn’t come up with a fake name under pressure either. Sue him. “Isn't that right officer?” He asks knocking his shoulder into Mando’s again when he doesn’t immediately answer, and when he does it is with a single nod of his head. 

Having his helmet off must really be doing a number on the guy. So much naked emotion on his face, it really is like how some of those religions that have _special_ clothes they don’t take off ever. Like not even for their husbands--and here Mando stands basically butt ass naked for the first time in his life in front of people who would wish him dead if they knew who he was. 

Migs doesn’t really get it--how could he while being the proud card carrying heathen that he is? But all it takes is one look at how pale the Mando has gotten in the short amount of time since his helmet came off to know how badly it is affecting him. 

Migs sprouts some more bullshit to try and get them out of there turning to go but the Mando stays stock still, like he’s bolted to the ground. Fuck, he’s in shock, panicking. All the signs are right there. 

They need to get out of here. Now.

He loops his arm in with the Mando’s and physically steers the other man forcing him to follow. But they don’t get far--because of fucking course they don’t. Why wouldn’t Hess, a high ranking officer, stop and want to have a chat with two pissant nobodies he’s never met before? 

“You are not dismissed.” Perfect, great. Fucking great. “You the tank troopers that delivered that shipment of rhydonium?”

“Yes sir.” Migs answers without hesitation.

“Yes sir.” The Mando follows a split second later, finally tuning into the internal screaming that has been going on inside Migs head this whole time. Small miracle that.

Which of course leads into Hess inviting them to share a drink to celebrate being the only crew to come back alive today. Just what he needs, to be seated next to the man he hates the most in the whole galaxy. The Mando, of course, voices no opinion nor does he actually use his words even once for the following ten minutes. Not that Migs was expecting him to at this point.

He shoots the dark haired man looks as they sit at the table with Hess, a little color is slowly coming back to his cheeks and his movements are less jerky. Maybe some of the shock of being naked for all intents and purposes has worn off--that or his mind is screaming ‘THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING’ over and over again on repeat in denial.

Could be either one, not that Migs is looking so closely anymore. Nearly all of his attention lands on the bloated piece of Imperial trash sat in front of him. It makes his skin crawl to be this close to the man--no the _thing_ that ordered so many of his own men dead. 

His ever simmering rage begins to boil the more _it_ speaks. He can see Mando shooting him increasingly worried looks, silently begging him to stop when he starts asking Hess about Burnin Konn and operation Cinder. 

Migs can see his pleading looks just fine but he doesn’t care. The more that walking piece of trash talks the hotter Migs temper gets. It’s obvious by his words, his dismissive tone, and body language that he doesn’t care about the people he killed. The good soldiers who died, and for what? What did the Empire accomplish with their deaths?

They failed. The empire’s comeback? Squashed before it could really even begin, so all those lives? The civilians, the troopers? Wasted for nothing, and yet the empire deemed it fit to promote Hess for it. As if his complete and utter disregard for his men was something to be proud of--something to encourage.

“We lost a whole division out there.” His voice is calm, deadly calm. He can see the Mando shaking his head in his peripheral vision as he stares down Hess. He knows this is going to end badly, but you know what? He doesn’t fucking care anymore.

“A small sacrifice.” 

It goes downhill from there.

Hess’s mouth moves, words come out but all Migs can hear is the screams of his squad mates over the comms. They didn’t die easily, and they didn’t die quick. He listened to Trentent cry for his mother until he went quiet. Watched Lolla cough and choke on her own blood as they got to her too late, crushed under the rubble of a building. 

The stench of burned flesh so inescapable that years later he can't stand the smell of a barbeque.

He watches Hess’s mouth curve into a cruel smile as he tells them a little secret. About how they’re going to put the rhydonium to good use causing chaos a hundred times that of Burnin Konn--the rhydonium Migs brought in.

The next second there is a flash of light, the sound of a blaster and Hess is falling back out of his chair with a hole in his chest. No one moves for a moment, the only sound in the room is Hess’s cup bouncing and rolling on the ground. Migs looks at the blaster in his hand then at the Mando who’s expression would be comical at any other time. The Mando spins around in his seat turning to look at the armed guard who was supposed to be protecting the officers.

All three of them stare at each other for a split second before the Mando moves, pulling out his blaster with lightning speed to shoot an officer behind Migs while Migs takes care of the armed guard. Not a shot wasted as the two Imperials fall to the floor motionless. 

Well that could have gone better.

But he doesn’t regret it, not one bit. Hess’s life was forfeit the moment he gave that order, and even if Migs dies in this forsaken hell hole he can say he did one good thing with his rotten life. He gives himself one moment to savor the sight of the expanding pool of red seeping out from beneath Hess before he turns to face the Mando.

He seems to be in disbelief, but he doesn’t say a word to Migs. Respect and understanding reflects in his eyes. Whether that is for his choice to avenge his fallen brothers or respect for being crazy enough to do it here of all places? Migs doesn’t know. But knowing the Mando?

It's probably a bit of both. 

What he does know is he can’t take one more minute of having to face those perpetually lost eyes. He knows the Mando broke his creed, that he can never again wear his helmet but it’s too much. It’s not fair that he should lose that part of himself for such a selfless reason.

He spots the trooper helmet sitting on the table and makes a decision. No one has to know, he thinks as he picks it up pressing to the Mando’s chest. The Mando looks down at the helmet with a mix of longing, fear, and raw need.

“You did what you had to do.“ Brown eyes fly up to meet his own, “I never saw your face.” His eyes stare at Migs with an intensity that would have anyone else squirming underneath its weight. He searches Migs face, trying to parse out his intentions. They stare at one another for a breath of time before a flicker of acceptance flashes in the Mando’s eyes, satisfied with whatever he saw in Migs.

He grips the helmet with one hand and the other falls onto Migs’s forearm. He takes a half step closer and leans in so that their heads are mere inches apart.

“Din Djarin.” His voice is rough as it struggles to get the words out. His name. Migs clasps his forearm back returning the gesture giving him a nod. 

The Mando--no, Din releases his arm and steps back. Migs twists his body away and averts his eyes as Din puts the helmet on. He doesn’t turn back around until he hears the sound of the seal as the helmet locks in place. 

A black trooper helmet faces his own, but beneath it he knows the face, knows the name--might even know the man. 

It changes things. 

The helmet should act like a much needed barrier between them but now that he’s seen how expressive that face is he can’t help but picture it even now. Great, just what he needs, another person to give a shit about. He glances down at the cooling body of the butcher, well at least he won’t be able to go the same way as the last people he cared for. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” The Ma--Din nods in agreement with not a moment to spare as troopers come racing towards the officer’s room having heard blaster fire. They fire at the approaching troopers neutralizing the first wave of them--but there will be more. Din gives Migs a look and motions with his head to move.

Don’t have to tell me twice, he thinks as he moves out of the way. Din wastes no time firing at the window controls. Migs kicks the broken blast shutters and climbs out, Din hot on his heels. From there on it is a race to the roof. 

Blaster fire and the shouts of the dying make for a scene of total chaos, enhanced by the pair of snipers picking off unsuspecting troopers as they cover their escape. Against all odds they make it to the roof, but they’re completely surrounded and need evac.

“Where’s our ship?” He calls as he ducks behind a crate as a trooper fires where he had just been standing. 

“Fett.” Din speaks into his communicator but he gets no response. But just as Migs is thinking this is where they’ll have to make their last stand, the sounds of Slave One’s engine roars over the blaster fire. 

Slave One’s canons fire taking out swaths of troopers clearing them a path as it practically skims the rooftop during the approach. Din wastes no time running and jumping onto the open ramp, Migs is hot on his heels but he almost doesn’t make it. He’s not as young as he used to be and his knees weren’t made for long distance jumps. 

A gloved hand reaches out catching his own pulling him onto the ramp more securely as he wobbles on the edge. He looks up at the helmet and knows the expression underneath. They lock eyes even through the barrier between them--fuck, looks like he’s gotten himself a new brother in arms. 

Great. 

He turns back to look at the base as it grows smaller, an unnamed feeling growing in his chest. It feels dangerously close to what he had felt before he shot Hess.

“Hand me the cycler rifle.” His voice is flat, he’s about to do something stupid again. The kind of stupid Din would like--so it is no surprise when Din doesn’t question him--he just hands over the rifle and watches as Migs take aim.

He lines his sight up aiming for the rhydonium they just brought in. He’s having no part in another Burnin Konn--and he fires. The explosion is truly a sight to behold, as are the cascading explosions that tears the building to pieces. Turning back around he hands the rifle back to Din who gives him a nod of approval.

“We all need to sleep at night.” This wasn’t a Rebels vs Imperial thing--it was personal. Something he knows Din would understand all too well. 

The short ride back to pick up the pair of snipers is a silent one, and for once Migs feels no desire to break it. He’s got a lot of shit to work through--although he’ll have plenty of time to do it on his own once they return him to the prison colony. 

But you know what? He’s made his peace with that. When they had first asked for his help he wanted to know what was in it for him--if he had known then he would have gotten his long sought after revenge he would haven’t have been such an asshole.

Well, he’d have been less of an asshole. Or at least tried to be anyway.

The point is that he did get something out of this crazy, insane mission. More than he could have imagined. A debt paid to ease the restless dead, and the peace of mind that comes along with knowing he prevented it from happening again somewhere else--from happening to someone else’s loved ones.

When they land to pick up the snipers so that he can be returned to the prison colony he’s surprisingly okay with it.

“Well, back to the scrap heap eh?” He jokes turning to Din as they stand side by side waiting for the snipers to meet them. 

“Thank you for helping.” His tone is heartfelt and loaded with about a hundred different levels of meaning that Migs is pretty sure even _Din_ doesn’t know the half of. Standing before him once again in his Mandalorian armor, though he broke his creed. Complicated, confused feelings surround the man like a cloud. 

He gets that.

“Yeah well, good luck getting your kid back.” And he means it. The guy has got to be the most devoted parent in the galaxy, his kid is one spoiled rotten lil shit and he’ll probably never even know it. 

An air of discomfort and uncertainty still hangs around the man like a toxic cloud. Migs really hopes he gets his kid back soon, looks like he could really use the support and judging by the rough company Din seems to keep around the kid is probably his only chance at that. That tough as nails cop sure as shit doesn’t seem the comforting type.

Speak of the devil and she will appear, he thinks as the cop, Cara, approaches. He plasters on a smile, and he half means it as he raises his arms up to be cuffed.

“Alright officer, take me back.” She stares at him long and hard without speaking for a moment before turning to look at Din. They stare at one another for a time, Migs is feeling a little uncomfortable being left out of the silent conversation if he’s being honest. 

“You know it’s a shame Mayfeld didn’t make it.” She says still looking at Din, Migs looks over at Din as well but he’s still facing Cara.

“Yeah too bad.” He sounds amused, happy even. Migs looks back and forth between them as they pretend he isn’t there.

“Yeah it’s too bad prisoner 34667 died in a refinery explosion on Morak.” It knocks the breath out of him when he realizes what is going on. 

“Can I--can I go?” Cara continues to not say anything but Din tilts his head motioning for him to leave. Migs takes a few steps away and turns back around to look at them. “I can really just leave?” They say nothing but the cop is fighting to keep a smile off her face. 

He takes another few steps and turns back one last time to give Din a nod that Din returns. A kindness for a kindness.

What do you know it does pay to be a good guy.

He makes his way through the jungle not turning back until he hears the engines of Slave One fire up. He watches the ship fly up higher and higher as it leaves the atmosphere and he can’t help but make a silent wish for them to succeed in their mission. They’re going up against Moff Gideon of all people--they’re going to need it.

He watches until he can’t see the dot of the ship anymore then he walks on heading in the general direction of the village they passed through. He arrives to find the village full swing of a celebration, children and adults alike dancing openly in the streets. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they are celebrating, nor does it take them long to figure the first outsider they’ve seen in years might have had something to do with it.

He doesn’t deny it.

Many celebratory drinks and toasts in his honor later he finds himself in his new house courtesy of the kindly matriarch of the village. He lays down in bed with a full belly and an easy conscience for the first time in far too many years. 

He sleeps through the night.


End file.
